Damage (8 page)

In the field house Monday afternoon, Dobie seems okay. He nods and says hi. He doesn’t ask how your date went, or start chattering about his weekend like he sometimes does. But then, he’s pretty busy with his duties.

Coach calls for full pads. He says he’s going out to the field, and everybody’d better be with him in five minutes. “Move it, girls,” he says on his way out the door. “I’m not in the mood to baby-sit.”

Curtis has to know what’s coming. It doesn’t seem to bother him, though; he asks how it went with Heather Friday night. You say fine. The two of you finish dressing out.

What’s coming doesn’t bother him, but it bothers you. It shouldn’t—God knows you’ve done your share of hammering other guys during Bull-in-a-Ring. But it does bother you; just a little, that’s all. Like gum on the bottom
of your shoe, that you can’t quite scrape off. Because there’s no point in doing this—Curtis doesn’t need to be pounded into the ground for a mistake he’s already suffered over, fought through, and won. Not Curtis, who thinks of football as a higher form of art.

Probably that’s why your chest is a little tight. Even though you know this drill isn’t any big deal. No big deal. not really. And it’s probably why you can’t quite bring yourself to look at Curtis.

“Go ahead,” you tell him, bending to tie your shoe on the bench in front of the locker. “I’ll be out in a second.”

“You okay?” Curtis asks. As if it’s you who’s about get gored and trampled.

“Yeah.” Your face feels like it’s turning to stone. Curtis goes on outside. When you pull the shoelace, intending to tighten it, your hands jerk so hard that snaps in two.

By the time you find a new lace, get it into your cleats a head out to the field, warm-ups are almost over. You have time to do a few quick stretches, because Coach telling everybody to form the ring.

“On account of forgetting who he was supposed cover,” he announces. “Hightower gets the weekly Head up His Ass Award.”

Brett Stargill’s standing across from you, feet planted like tree trunks, a faint smile flickering like sunlight over
his face. Your own face feels so stiff it could shatter. You lift your dangling chin strap, snap it into place.

Curtis steps into the center without a word.

“Everybody down,” Coach commands.

“Set.” Across the ring, Stargill hunkers down at same time you do; he’s your mirror image.

Coach blows his whistle at the same instant he points to Jason Cox. Immediately, Cox blasts off his straight into Curtis. But Curtis is crouched and ready and when they meet, he actually drives Cox back a step or two.

For some reason you’re remembering something you haven’t thought about in years; you and Curtis, ten years old, sneaking one of Curtis’s dad’s cigars out to the trees beyond the stock tank. Feeling hard-edged and bold, trading puffs—till you noticed Curtis’s face was kind green, and then you couldn’t deny the fact you were getting pretty sick yourself.

Cox trots back into the circle, into the wrong place. Coach already has his whistle back in his mouth.

Tweeet!
He points to Shea, who takes his shot. He and Curtis come together like two rams, and the impact forces Curtis back almost to the other side. Shea’s quicker than Cox at getting back into the circle.

You’re remembering how you and Curtis laid there till the world stopped spinning, then tottered weakly back over to Curtis’s house, side by side, swearing a
solemn vow never to touch tobacco again.

Tweeet!
Thomas’s turn.

And when you walked inside, Curtis’s mom was looking out the kitchen window saying
“Is that smoke out there?”
And sure enough a spark had caught in the dried-up late summer grass. The Parkersville Volunteer Fire Department came, which was exciting, and a deputy from the county sheriff, which wasn’t, because you threw up all over his boots and he threatened to arrest you.

Tweeet!
Ragsdale.

Curtis is still standing. He’s the one who told you they don’t arrest kids for throwing up. You already knew it but you were still scared, till Curtis said it out loud—that made it true.

Tweeet!
Coach’s finger points to you.

You explode.

The next thing you know, Curtis is lying on his back with you on top of him. You don’t look at his face, just get up quickly; Curtis is slower, but Coach is already blowing his whistle again and then suddenly Curtis is down again, this time hit from behind by Brett Stargill. When he gets up he’s a little unsteady, with a clot of turf stuck in his face mask.

Coach calls them on from the front, from the sides, from behind, where Curtis can’t see it coming.

And then it doesn’t matter because Coach is calling them on so fast that Curtis barely has time to get to
feet, much less look around.

When Coach finally gives it an extra-long now-we’re-done blow, Curtis lies there and doesn’t get right away.

“Everybody line up for wind sprints,” Coach hollers.

You’re frozen, staring down at your best friend curled up on the ground like a dead shrimp.

“Reid! You deaf? Line up for wind sprints.”

So you do what you have to do; you shove down whatever it is you’re feeling and walk away; you watch yourself walk away and get in line with everybody else.

When you look back to check, Curtis is wincing as he gets to his feet. He doesn’t mind, he knows it’s just business. But still, it might take awhile to shove this one down—the fact that you let Curtis get up from Bull-in-a-Ring without any help.

It’s a comfort to watch Heather get dressed.

Mrs. Mackenzie is out with Ronny. What’s left of the afternoon is leaking away and you’re just lying on Heather’s bed, wide awake, eyes open, because getting up is as impossible as floating off the ground.

She’s already got her panties on—that breath catching little scrap of silk. You love the way she pulls the of her bra together, love the way her breasts seem expand, as if pushed in and up by unseen hands.

She snaps the bra closed, reaches for her blouse…and sees you watching.

She tosses the blouse aside and turns toward mirror. A quick glance at you again before she focuses her own reflection, as if she’s forgotten you’re there.

She hasn’t. You know by now: It’s a comfort Heather to let you watch her get dressed.

Looking at her, at that beautiful face and all those breathtaking ins and outs, you can admit the truth—don’t really care about anything else. Don’t particularly care about your friends, your family, school. Even Bull-in-a-Ring is a distant memory, because now you are here.

The mattress cradles you like a cocoon. You’d like just to lie here, flatter and flatter, and never have to leave this place.

“You know something?” Heather winds one lock of hair slowly around her finger. “You’re the first guy I’ve let in my room. I never let guys in. Never.” When she lets the lock of hair fall, it brushes her skin just above the champagne-colored lace.

“One time,” she continues, staring into her own eyes—Heather can get as caught up in her reflection as you can in the real thing—“Brad Echols came around throwing pebbles at my window, trying to get me to let him in. But I wouldn’t. That’s silly, isn’t it?” She turns her head a little to one side, checking her face from a slightly different angle. “I mean, not letting guys in. Because my room is a lot safer than the couch if Mom comes back all of a sudden. It’s not like, roll off the couch and get dressed right away—can you say high school? There’s always a scene if Mom even thinks I’ve done something, the hypocrite.”

Always?
you think, and wonder—not for the time—how many guys she’s been with. But you don’t
want to ask, because then she might ask you the same about your exes.

Instead you watch the way her hair slides and swings over her shoulder blades. “Want to hear something funny?” Heather says, and goes on without waiting for an answer. “The first guy I dated—he was a real jerk. An older guy—he was seventeen, and I was thirteen. I only ever did it with him in the first place because I was scared I’d lose him if I didn’t. But then after we did do it, I was still scared that he’d get bored. So I was like this doormat, letting him do whatever he wanted. Can you imagine being a doormat?” Again, she doesn’t wait for an answer. “Every single time I’d just end up underneath him and he’d just keep going until he was finished. And I’d be left with nothing but this awful, empty feeling, and sticky underwear for the rest of the night. So I finally got up the guts to dump him. And guess what he did?”

“I don’t know.”

“He cried. Can you believe it?”

She laughs. Something in her voice chills you a little. You pull the sheet up higher over your chest.

You don’t know what you’ll say if she asks you about your first time. It actually was a lot like Heather described, except you didn’t “keep going.” It was over so quick barely even
got
going. It happened during a commercial break while you and the girl were at her house watching TV. Of course, you’d been kissing and touching each
other for a long time, but the main event was finished so quickly you didn’t even miss any of
Saturday Night Live.

Heather doesn’t ask you anything. She turns away from the mirror, bends to pick up her blouse from the floor. “Blech! Makeup stain.” She drops the blouse and gives you a mock glare. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t see it.”

She’s walking over to the closet. “That’s why everybody likes you—you never see anything wrong with anybody.” She starts rifling through the clothes, looking something to wear. “Hey. Recognize this?” She reaches into the closet, pulls out a plaid skirt on a hanger. Short, of course. “Don’t you remember?”

You shake your head.

“I wore it That Night.”

“What night?”

“You know.” She waits, then when you still have no clue: “The night of Our First Time.”

Oh. “It was dark,” you explain. “I couldn’t see much.”

Heather looks annoyed. She hangs the skirt back the closet, slides a bunch of hangers over to bury it.

The hangers make a screeching noise as she moves them across one by one; solids, prints, pastels, plaid, lace.

Then she stops and pushes the other clothes aside to look at a dress. She slides her hand down the silky fabric You don’t recognize that one, either.

Heather sighs. Obviously, this dress has a nice memory
attached to it. “Am I supposed to remember that one, too?” you ask.

“No,” she says, and sweeps the dress aside. “You know what I like about you? The way you smell. Some guys slap on cologne like it’s mosquito repellent. But you just smell like a person. Like sun and wind. Maybe just a little sweat. And I like the way in the evenings sometimes you get a little five o’clock shadow, like you need a shave. It gives you this bad-boy look. Very sexy.”

She pulls out a blouse, removes it from the hanger, starts to put it on—then glances at you, and with faintest of smiles, drapes the blouse over the doorknob before she walks back over to the mirror, and brushing her hair. The show’s not over yet.

She scoops her hair up with both hands, holding it top of her head in a mass of curls. Her neck is long arched. “If you look in that bottom right-hand drawer, there’s a basket with ribbons and stuff. Can you through and find a clip that looks like a butterfly? It’s gold, with big wings.”

You roll over, reach down, and pull the drawer open. There’s a bunch of papers in it, and a box made of dark wood, with a duck inlaid on the lid; it looks like something that a man would own. But it’s the only thing that’s even remotely like a basket, so you take the lid off.

The box is empty except for a piece of paper that’s
been torn to bits and taped back together. It’s old; the Scotch tape that holds it together is yellowing.

it’s better this way i know Heather will forget i hope you will forgive

“Not that drawer.” Heather’s beside you suddenly, slamming the drawer shut so quickly that it almost catches your fingers. “I said the
right
side.”

“Sorry,” you say.

“Forget it.” Scowling, she goes back to stand in front of the mirror and starts playing with her hair again, but her hands can’t seem to remember where they left off; locks slide from beneath her fingers and fall down her neck while she frowns at her own reflection.

“I didn’t mean—”

“I said
forget it.
Are you deaf?”

“No,” you say, getting angry, too. You roll onto your back again. “I’m not.”

“Apparently”—Heather whirls away from the mirror—“you are.” She walks over to the blouse hanging on the doorknob, pulls it free, jerks it over her head. Snatches her jeans up off the floor where she left them.

She won’t come sit on the bed to put her jeans on but turns her back to you, teetering to balance on one foot while she thrusts the other one into the pants leg.

She’s pretty angry. You think about the note, all torn up, then taped back together. About how it looks kind, and how she doesn’t want anybody to see it. And how it seems to be a good-bye.

And suddenly you think you understand why she’s upset. “Heather…” You pull a pillow onto your chest. Push it off again; you’re still thinking. Roll onto your side, prop up one elbow. “It’s okay to—if you ever wanted to talk about your dad, you could talk to me.”

She still refuses to face you; you hear her zip the jeans. “You don’t talk about
your
dad.” Her voice is cold.

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“There’s nothing for me to talk about, either.”

“But I don’t remember anything,” you begin—stop. Because there is the one thing you remember.

Heather stalks over, pulls open the bottom right-hand drawer, which, sure enough, is brimming with ribbons and barrettes. She picks out the butterfly clip. Steps over to the mirror and starts brushing her hair again. Briskly, this time, pulling the brush through so fast it crackles.

“You do remember something,” she says, twisting hair up behind her head. “I can tell. So go ahead. Spill it.”

She holds the twist with one hand, slides the butterfly clip in.
Snap!
It’s done. Perfectly.

You don’t particularly want to spill it. But you feel like reaching out a little, and you do want her to trust you—although you don’t really expect it to be quick and
easy. She’s so touchy about things.

So you’ll put your own self on the line first. “Well, there is this one thing,” you tell her. You feel your face get a little warm and pull the pillow close to your chest again. “But it’s more like a feeling or a dream. Only it was real.”

“Go ahead.”

You finger the corner of the pillowcase, trying think what to say. You don’t really want to say anything, but somebody has to go first. “I must have been very little—I remember sitting up on the bathroom counter next to him, and we’d shave together. Except I was playing, you know—I had this toy razor. Not a real one.”

She doesn’t say anything. Just turns her head this way and that, checking her twist for flaws.

“That’s all,” you tell her, and roll back on the bed.

“Rats,” says Heather. Apparently she’s found a flaw—she pulls the clip out. “Your dad died from cancer, right?” she asks, picking up the brush to start all over again.

“Yeah.”

“So everybody knew ahead of time that he was going to, you know. Die.” She brushes her hair out with businesslike strokes. “I’ll bet you got to go say good-bye him and everything. Didn’t you?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’m sure you did. It’s very important. It’s like something’s unfinished, if you don’t get to do it.” She pulls the hair up into that same smooth, shining twist, clips it with
a
snap!
“I used to have dreams where I said good-bye. I don’t need anybody’s pity,” she adds, giving you a defiant glance in the mirror.

“I don’t think anybody pities you.”

“That’s right. They don’t.” She checks her hair—identical to the way she did it a second ago, as far as you can tell. “This looks okay, doesn’t it?”

“It looks great. Was that note from your dad?” you ask.

Heather freezes, blinks at her reflection for moment. Then, without a word, she walks away. “You know what’s good about jeans?” she asks, keeping her back to you as she scoops up the makeup-stained blouse. “Blue is actually a neutral color. Anything goes with them. I’ll bet you didn’t know that.” She pauses there, blouse in hand, as if she’s suddenly lost track of what she’s doing. You see her take a deep breath. “Did you ever have this feeling like you’re not sad or anything, but like something’s squeezing the back of your eyes? Like you want to cry, but can’t?”

She’s just standing there in the middle of the room, and you notice for the first time how thin her shoulders are. She’s always seemed so much bigger than life—but this moment, when she’s not posing or smiling or bossing people around, she actually looks quite small.

“Yeah,” you tell her. “I know what you mean.” You want to add something else—only you don’t know what.
Comfort her in some way, maybe—only you don’t know how. Get up? Walk all the way over there and hug her?

“You’ve been here a long time,” she says, and when she turns to look at you her eyes are clear and blank, like a doll’s eyes. “You’d better be going home.”

She means it.

She busies herself as you get dressed; she tidies up dresser, straightens the chair, without a word she hands you one of your shoes that somehow ended up behind closet door.

On the front porch, she seems almost fragile—maybe because her makeup’s mostly worn off, which makes look a lot younger. You give her a good-bye kiss. She pup with it at first, then pulls away the way a little kid away from putting medicine on a stinging scrape. You’d like to tell her that anytime she wants to talk, you’ll there—but she’s already going inside.

She’s shut the door before you even step off the porch.